


Dreaming in Lucidity

by keelywolfe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Sleepy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-14
Updated: 2012-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-01 22:53:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John woke up slowly, hardly aware that he wasn't dreaming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreaming in Lucidity

**Author's Note:**

> My good friend Sithdragn requested some nice, sleepy John-fic. Never let it be said that I don't do requests. ;)

John woke up slowly, hardly aware that he wasn't dreaming. The blankets were tucked close around him, toasty warm, half blocking the stream of sunlight pooling into the room, filling it with early morning light. He tugged the blanket up higher, burrowing into it and the hand low on his stomach shifted, the arm around him pulling him in closer to the lovely warm body spooned up behind him. 

…body?

Blinking in the too-bright light, John craned his head over his shoulder and saw a tousle of dark curls splayed across his pillow, the smooth line of a familiar forehead. Not that he thought anyone else would be creeping into bed with him but it was nice to have it confirmed that it was indeed Sherlock. 

John let his head drop back on the pillow, burying his face into the cool fabric in a hopeful attempt at more sleep. Too many years of rising at the crack of dawn were pulling at him, though, waking him as much as the stream of sunlight. It brought his thoughts online, trickling information forming behind his eyes. Sherlock was in bed with him and to all appearances, he seemed to be actually sleeping. 

Thus far, he and Sherlock had managed to do a wide variety of things in his bed, enough that John had bitten back on his frugality and purchased a spare set of sheets. Sleeping though, sleeping had not been something Sherlock had managed, or not that John had ever been aware of it. Every morning he'd woken alone, the sheets next to him long since cooled and Sherlock had been downstairs, already embroiled in his task of the day and whether that was a new experiment, pestering Lestrade for a case, or simply lying on the sofa, contemplating ideas that John couldn't conceive of, much less understand, Sherlock would be wrapped up in it. He might drink half a cup of tea or if John were particularly lucky, eat the toast John put at his elbow, two slices carefully slathered with butter and cut corner to corner, not down the middle. 

To have him here now, sound asleep and half-draped over John made something tighten in his chest, something that neither of them had given words to yet. 

Too much to be thinking of in the early hours, John decided, and instead he covered the hand on his belly with his own, sliding his fingers between Sherlock's. Long, slim fingers, damp with sleep, and John couldn't resist rubbing, just slightly, almost a caress. 

Sherlock stiffened instantly, coming awake as abruptly as he did everything, and to John's regret, drew his hand back. He let it go without protest, didn't try to cling or protest, and if he had to squeeze his eyes shut, just a little, to stifle the sharp sting behind his eyelids, well, John had been around Sherlock to know how to keep at least a little of what he didn't want seen hidden. 

Too much of a dream, then, to think he might spend a morning cuddling in bed with a sleepy Sherlock. Not that he would put it like that; it sounded ridiculous enough in his head. The fantasy lingered, though, of turning his head and finding Sherlock not quite awake, as disoriented as he ever could be and his eyes large and drowsy. Lovely. 

Ridiculous. 

There was no stifling his surprise when Sherlock crowded in closer behind him, his bare leg sliding smoothly over John's hip as he pressed them together down the lengths of their bodies. Breath tickled softly against the back of his neck, followed by the faintest touch of lips and John sighed, tipped his head back to let Sherlock follow the line of his throat upward. The heat of his mouth left behind a trail of cool dampness, the edge of teeth against the soft lobe of his ear. 

John couldn't help sighing, though he resolutely didn't open his eyes, ignored the red glow of sunlight seeping through. Fingertips grazed his chin, tipping his head up further. Enough for Sherlock to dip his head in, press a kiss beneath it, his tongue rasping at the early morning stubble like a cat. 

A bare foot slid down his calf, toes wriggling ticklishly at his ankle. Further down, until Sherlock could rub their toes together and John laughed silently, squirming, even as a slim arm with remarkable strength snaked around his hips, holding him tightly against Sherlock's body. His very bare body, John realized, naked against him, and he drew in a slow, shaky breath as Sherlock parted his legs from behind with his knee. 

They hadn't done this, not…not yet. John had been contented with hands and mouths, with rubbing against each other until they both came in a rush of slick, messy wetness. It'd been lovely and he hadn't asked for more, hadn't expected more but if he had, if he'd ever had a dream about this, then John would have thought their positions would be reversed. That he would be the one behind Sherlock, nudging between the soft cheeks of his arse. That Sherlock would be beneath him, biting his soft, plush lower lip, stifling little moans as John pushed slowly into him, fucked soft little sounds free until Sherlock was clutching at him, begging him for more. 

He…he might have had a dream like that. Maybe.

None of his dreams had included Sherlock snugged up behind him, the hand on his hip sliding down the curve of John's arse in an unspoken question. John bit his lip when Sherlock shifted slightly, when he heard the click of a plastic cap opening and then slickened fingers pressed against him. They might have been trembling, John wasn't sure. It might have been his own shaking, his breathing ragged as he clutched at his pillow, knuckles white with the strain. Sherlock's fingers were long and slim and to feel them inside was strange and terrifying, sliding into him, opening him with slow, smooth strokes. 

Too quickly, they moved with ease, pressing deep, and the strangeness receded. Not quite a pleasure, it was more complex than that and yet, John found he could hold still for them. He could let Sherlock touch him like this, he could feel himself relaxing, the clench of his body easing. Protest rose in him when Sherlock finally withdrew, faded with realization. This was happening, it was going to happen, and it was happening now, right now. 

Breath, warm and damp against his ear, a single word, "John." So very softly and John flinched, no, no, please don't. Don't break in on the dream. He muffled his face into his pillow, pushed back against Sherlock impatiently. Felt the hard press against him and did not wince, exhaled slowly as Sherlock pushed into him.

John's breath caught in his throat, biting back a groan. He buried his face into the covers as Sherlock rocked into him, each slow thrust carrying him deeper, until he could feel the smooth curve of Sherlock's hips against his arse. Not like any dream he'd ever had, no, but John could be in this dream, listen to the heaviness of Sherlock's breathing, the slight, jerky movement in his hips as though he couldn't quite hold still. 

Fingertips on his chin again, drawing him out from his cocoon of blankets and pillows, cool air touching his face. Almost, he resisted, he wanted this dream, he wanted it so very much, and so long as he could hide in the safety of his blankets, it was all right. Sherlock's hand was persistent, turning his head and John followed it blindly because this was Sherlock and he'd never been very good at resisting him. Lips pressed against his own, Sherlock stealing a tender kiss and John opened to it helplessly. Let his mouth open, let a too-clever tongue sweep over his own. Let Sherlock catch his soft cry as he finally moved. 

Slowly, so slowly, Sherlock barely rocking inside him, each thrust easing into him. Beneath the blankets was obscenely warm, drawing sweat from John and he wanted to burrow in deeper, wanted to bury himself in the heat of the blankets and the heavy smell of their sex that was rising up. Sherlock was tangled up in him, arms around him, legs sliding together, and their mouths jarred apart, their mirrored breathing damp and ragged. Sherlock stole another luxurious kiss, his tongue moved like pornography and then he was burying his face into the curve of John's shoulder, panting against him as he slid in deeper, again. Again. 

"John," Only his name and just now in Sherlock's voice it sounded like a prayer. His next thrust was a little harder, a little better, and his voice was as deep as a canyon, a low thread of sound against John's ear and all he heard was his own name. The flex of his hips, John, pushing into him, John, a little faster, John, John, his name, always his name, until it was a soft chant, in a rush of gasping, hot breath. "John," Sherlock whisper-screamed against him, his hand skittering over John's belly, seeking and finding the hard length of his cock, stroking with the blind inelegance of the sex-drugged. 

Coming was like falling into daylight, John tipping his head back, begging silently and Sherlock caught his mouth fiercely, twining their tongues together as he pushed in hard. The pulse of his own orgasm was as strange and wonderful as a fantasy John had never realized he'd wanted, the two of them collapsing into each other in a shivering, sweating mess despite the roiling heat beneath the blankets. 

Hovering on the edge of sleep, John barely woke as Sherlock eased out of him, curling up against his back. Easy to relax back against him, drowsing as Sherlock nuzzled soft kisses against his shoulder, the damp press of his tongue testing the flavour of John's sweat. 

When he woke later, alone, it was not a surprise. Shouldn't have been a surprise and John swallowed hard against the sharp surge of grief that rose in his throat. Utterly fucking ridiculous, he was a grown man, not a child who needed to be cuddled and coddled, spoon-fed kisses. And if he kept a memory of this, tucked it mentally into his cache of dreams, well, who could blame him. The tenderness of Sherlock touching him, easing into him, fucking him with astonishing gentleness...it was worth a bit of time to savour it. 

A rush of cool air invaded the secret nest of his blankets as they were lifted, the mattress sinking, followed by a cooler body, snugging up against him, an arm sliding around him and pulling him in tight as Sherlock sighed into his hair. His feet were icy, tucked in between John's in a futile effort to warm them, and his breath was minty, all signs that Sherlock had been up at least long enough to brush his teeth. 

John felt warmth rush to his face in a way that had nothing to do with the blankets. He should, maybe he should…Sherlock was a fastidious sort of bloke and John was still sleepy damp and sex-sticky, his own breath sour. He wiggled, a bit, trying to slip free of that arm. Only to find it tighten to iron, holding him still. 

"Don't go," Sherlock mumbled between his shoulder blades.

John swallowed, hard. "Sherlock…" he said, weakly. 

"Don't go," Sherlock insisted, his arm tight, his legs tangled into John's. "Stay here with me."

Always, John didn't say, kept that word locked behind his teeth. Buried it, deeply, with his other dreams, the ones that he tried not to see, the ones that pleaded for promises and forevers, and things John didn't dare ask for. Instead, he relaxed back into Sherlock's arms and ignored the rising glow of sunlight, basked in the sleepy warmth enveloping him and he didn't need any other dreams to sweeten his sleep this morning. 

-finis-


End file.
